


their flesh and blood

by lilabut



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Drabble, F/M, Miscarriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-10 22:52:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5603986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilabut/pseuds/lilabut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carol and Daryl lose something they did not expect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	their flesh and blood

He was ripped from his sleep so suddenly, eyes shooting open, pitch black engulfing him as they struggled to adjust. His heart ached to pump enough blood through his veins, lungs closing off for a few seconds until he could pull just enough air into them that the stars before his eyes began to fade. Suddenly, they were back on the road. Blood and dirt caking their clothes, sticking to hair and skin, limbs shivering in the cold, metal cans rattling in the wind, distant moans echoing in the night.

 

 

But they were not on the road anymore, not for a long time.

 

_Carol._

 

Her cry had woken him, he remembered that now. Next to him, she turned under the blanket, rolled onto her back, grabbing the pristine sheets beneath her. For a brief moment, Daryl thought she was asleep, another nightmare haunting her, more vivid than most. He'd wake her up, hold her close, kiss away the shadows and ghosts that roamed the world of her dreams.

 

But then she gasped his name, the broken syllables followed by a pained moan, and in the light of the moon that broke through a crack in the curtains, he saw the terror in her eyes. She was wide awake.

 

 

When the memory of that night haunts him in his dreams (weeks, months, years later) it is all a blur of gray, blue and black, as though the memory was floating behind a thin veil.

 

The way she craned her body in pain, the frantic way her hands pushed back the blanket. The blood. How black it had looked in the light of the moon, seeping into the cotton of her pants, pooling on the mattress beneath her. Coating his hands as he tried and fumbled and desperately called for help.

 

Her tears, how she rolled onto her side, clinging to him, tear trails glistening in the white light. Her sobs, the broken _no_ she whispered, over and over, understanding what was happening when he could only shout into the night until the door burst open.

 

 

He had not known what was happening that night, thought he was losing her, that all his efforts to keep her safe had eventually failed. Walkers, starvation, exposure, her husband; she had survived it all.

 

She survived that night, as well. But the child they never even knew they were going to have, did not.

 

 

It is better, he thinks most days. Better that it happened so early. Sometimes, in his dreams, she sits between his legs, back pressed against his chest, hair longer, skin smoother, a lighter tone to her voice, her fingers dancing along the back of his hand where it rests on the swell of her stomach. He feels happiness in each fiber of his being, unfamiliar and all too bright. But then it all shifts, turns to black and blue and she screams his name, begs for him to help, _help, stop this!_ as she is torn apart from the inside.

 

Those nights, he wakes, sits upright in bed with a sheen of sweat coating him. Next to him, Carol usually stirs, hand finding his in the dark.

 

 

It is better the way it happened. But some days, he hears Judith's laughter, sees the brightness of her smile, laughs as she pulls at his hair. He watches Carol as she tends to a scraped knee, as she laughs at first steps and first bike rides and firsts, firsts, firsts.

 

Those days, he feels cheated out of _everything_.


End file.
